


Cocaine, Grievous Bodily Harm and Chocolate Sundaes

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, gen - Freeform, inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Engarde's inner monologue while he's in the holding cell in 2-4, dealing with Phoenix as his lawyer, his terrible plans, and coming down from some epic substances; rambling on in and out of sanity and fantasy and compulsion and trying to reign in his thoughts and outsmart Phoenix who is questioning him. <b>Major spoilers for 2-4</b>, canon inclusions of dialogue and what's happening around them.</p><p>This was the first time I wrote Matt, and realised that I really, REALLY like writing him.</p><p>Warning not really for anything explicitly violent, but just those quiet, nauseating <i>unsettling</i> mentions Matt makes throughout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocaine, Grievous Bodily Harm and Chocolate Sundaes

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another Kink Meme challenge:
> 
>  _What is Matt Engarde thinking when he puts on his bubblehead facade? Does it take extra effort on his part to stay in character? Does he turn off his mind and let his mouth run? Is he inwardly gloating about how stupid the other person is? Fantasizing about fucking Juan within an inch of his life? Thinking about ice cream sundaes?_
> 
>  _I'd like to see some inner monologue, please._

I'm cute. I can get away with anything.  
The kids love me.

And there's this guy in a suit standing on the other side of the panel, and he looks like he's trying to sell me something and all this happened so quickly that there's still enough fairy dust in me from after the awards ceremony, and I'm just watching him, and he's telling me he's my lawyer, and all I can do is rub my nose and giggle. 

He's not laughing, though, he looks frantic, like he's about to piss himself. Maybe I could pay him enough to do that; that'd be sort of hot. He looks kind of uptight and angry; I bet he's got a tight little ass, too. 

Hmmm... Mr. Lawyer dude, I guess I have to speak to you rather than use you for my sexual amusement. I'll just make that face and throw him my tagline about being so horribly refreshing, blink, smile, flash my pearly-whites at him. 

Shelly was telling me that I'd get good legal representation. I hope he remembers this guy's name should he decide to double-cross me...

Hmm... a camera. I hope I don't look  _buzzed_. It could be worse, I guess; if I was in that Nickel Samurai suit, I'd be sweating like that lawyer is. I wonder what he looks like under that suit. I wonder if he's got any scars. I could probably give him a few, and again,  _damn_ , that's an appealing thought. Mr. Lawyer against the wall; yeah, in here, his pants at his ankles, me, pushed up against him with an arm around him, my hand just at that bit of neck where the shirt collar stops, digging my fingernails into him as I'm fucking him in the ass. 

"Sorry to intrude, but I would like to ask you a few personal questions."

Oh. Shit. He looks like he wants an answer. I wonder what he'd sound like, screaming, getting thumped into the wall--  _that_  wall, where the camera could capture it all nicely-- gasping and then realising that he's bleeding, maybe wincing a bit as I dig the fingernails into already-open wounds and start fucking him a bit harder... 

I remember when some stupid seedy rumour got out on the internet that I had done porn before. Adrian killed that one. Hmm. I should probably ring her...

Oh, jeez. This lawyer guy wants answers, still, doesn't he? Mmmm... let's see what he looks like  _annoyed_. Reel him some bullshit about my autobiography. Non-famous people will believe anything. 

He looks  _really_  pissed when I start talking into my phone. I wish the fucking thing worked a bit better; stupid promotional bullshit, Wearaphone gave me this thing for free, provided I wear it and get kids copying me. At least it's a good way to facilitate ignoring people.

He's looking annoyed. Moreso. And I probably shouldn't get him too angry, given that this guy's defending me or something.

 

God, this is surreal. I keep seeing the camera and wondering if it's all some elaborate setup. If some cop's gonna walk out and go, "Matt Engarde, you've just been a part of  _Celebrity Prankster_!" 

"Mr. Engarde, I'd like to ask you about the murder..."

It's weird when you think about Corrida being dead. Really fucking weird. I wonder what he looked like while he was dying. I don't think he'd have been all coked out and happy, because he was all wholesome and shit; not a good enough actor like  _me_ , to just put it on for the smiling stupid masses. So he wouldn't have done any lines. He would have probably sat there for a bit, had some tomato juice, switched on the hotel cable and had a good, and boring night's sleep.

Even though Adrian would have visited him. Not that I blame her, but I don't think she wants to fuck him, and since I started watching him, I haven't seen anything. 

I guess this whole murder thing is going to fuck her right off. 

 

Oh, shit. Guy in suit who'd look hot getting fucked by me wants answers. Isn't he like, some tabloid person? 

He's unimpressed. Looks funny when his brow does that wrinkly thing that mine won't do thanks to the miracles of Botox. Maybe I should talk to him about it. 

 

Dude, talk to my staff. I have people to organise things like this for me. I shouldn't be here, anyway. That cop by the door-- I wonder if he's one of those nice-guy cops and he could bring me a chocolate sundae or one of those corrupt cops and he could bring me some more blow. 

I mean, _dude_ : it's _boring_ in here.

 

"Even Neo Mt. Fuji itself knows that I'm not the murderer!"

He actually looks like he's sucking it up. Shit. This is kind of hilarious. The kid with him looks as tripped out as I feel, and now he's showing me a badge.

Oh-kay. What was he here for again? I want to take the edge off a bit; it's getting cold in here and I was meant to be getting loaded and celebrating my triumph over Corrida. 

And trying not to celebrate too hard given that he's, you know, dead and all. Well, I'm not meant to-- wasn't meant to, you know-- know that.

Why's this guy trying to sell me shit and then looking so confused when I tell him to go away? He's more persistent than some crazed fan. 

 

He's now talking about some press conference I was going to give. News to me, and I can't reach Adrian from her to confirm or deny it. I don't remember saying I'd do anything other than hit the bottle and enjoy some top-notch blow after having to deal with all those idiotic fans out there. 

Now he's showing me a transceiver. Mental note: this guy is  _not_  an electronics salesman. He's a lawyer. Why do I need a lawyer again? To negotiate that contract for the next season of  _Nickel Samurai_. 

Oh. Hang on. Corrida's very dead right now. 

And that sort of had something to do with me. 

Shelly said stuff about me having a lawyer organised and...  _wait_? _This_ is the guy? He'd better be good. If Shelly screws me over with a bad lawyer, I can always screw him over with a little blackmail.

 

The minute this lawyer gets me out of here, though, I'm going home, and I'm going to watch that tape. I'm going to sit in my den, with Corrida dying on my movie-sized screen. I want to see how he goes. I wonder if he struggled. I wonder if he screamed. I wonder if Shelly talked to him, reassured him, told him to just relax and go with it, and if Corrida was there fighting it and...

Fuck. I shouldn't be thinking about sex right now but I am. And that lawyer's looking pretty grim-faced and talking about me and how popular I am, so I'm just reeling him along. This is like doing an interview on some type of news show. 

I'm good at things, and I'm popular, and everyone loves me, Mr. Lawyer. 

Why does his face go all funny when I say "refreshing like a spring breeze?" Like he doesn't believe me. And if he doesn't believe me, other people might start not believing me and HOLY SHIT THIS IS ONE FUCKING BIG MESS OF A SCANDAL AND I WILL FUCKING DESTROY SHELLY DEKILLER IF I DON'T GET OUT OF HERE SOON.

Be calm. Tell the nice lawyer how much you need to get out. Sympathetic face. Calm down. Think clearly, speak slowly. Like you're in public, and you're giving a speech. You can only do this once. Don't let the good times and the sexythoughts and the coke addle you. Nice and slow, Matt. Refreshing like a spring breeze. Think about what happened. He's asking all the questions, all you need to do is answer them and not say anything stupid. He started looking a bit strange when you agreed to have him on board... just tell him the... truth.  _Don't_  tell him the stuff about Shelly and the fact that you kind of set all this up in the first place. You're the Nickel Samurai, beloved hero to children everywhere. The Nickel Samurai doesn't kill people. Not like this, anyway. And you're him, so you didn't do it.

Calm  _down_ , Matt. He looks like he's buying your little monologue about what you were doing.

Hey, this is totally like being in a crime movie. Except there are meant to be more people in the cell with you and there are meant to be fights and cops beating up people and blood and sick and violence and prison rape going on in here. Maybe you got a cell to yourself because you're famous and everyone loves you. That's it, Matt. Now answer the angry lawyer's questions.

God, I wish Adrian was here. I'd be nervous like this and she'd be able to kick his ass and tell him I'm having some quiet time, or she'd know somewhere I could get some more coke or some sleeping pills or something from and it would all be good.

 

 

 

"Dude! It's Mr. Wright!" 

It seems like forever since I saw you, you smug little blue-suited prick, with your strange spiked hairstyle and your big blue puppydog eyes. Here I am knowing I'm paying a fortune to keep you in hair stylant and Blue Suits of Death, and  _you're_  looking  _worried_? I don't like this, Mr. Lawyer. And when I don't like things, I get angry.

And when Adrian isn't around, well, you don't want to see me angry.

In the time that's passed since I last saw you, you've probably showered and been out and done things and had a nice little time putting together a case you haven't said too much about. I've not slept, I've come down without  _any_  sleeping pills, and had bad detention centre coffee for breakfast. The guard offered me a cigarette. Someone (Adrian?) paid off someone last night and I  _at least_  have some brandy in here. I'm telling everyone it's chocolate milk...

 _That's_  what I want: a sundae. A big delicious chocolate sundae. 

But... looking at him now, he looks worried. Like he's scared.  _Really_  scared and cautious. And looking at him, his earnest little face, suddenly  _I'm_  scared.

Brave face, Matt. Calm. Chill. Refreshing. 

My insides are churning around, because I want to know  _what_  he knows. What little secrets have you uncovered, Mister Lawyer-- or have your adventures turned up nothing, and now you're back fishing for more from me?

A  _Secret_. Adrian's talked.  _Fuck_.

That's got to be the one; it's not like Adrian knew about most of my adventures, is it?

I'm laughing, Mister Lawyer dude, because thinking about  _what Adrian doesn't know_  is thinking about when Juan Corrida-- who always wore that same try-harder little-engine-that-could expression that  _you_  have-- was making that slightly worried face that time after that network party when...

 _Heh heh heh heh..._  

 

That was that time when I learned about all the bears in his room. 

I know that that's  _not_  what you want to talk to me about because Adrian doesn't know about it. I think she'd kind of get a bit disturbed if she heard that one. And... I can't disturb her. She's good at what she does and because she doesn't like dudes, well, we don't need to have that whole you-ess-tee thing going on. We have a professional, mutually parasitic relationship, I guess. She needs me to have a job and an identity and something to, you know,  _do_. And she does it well. Efficiently.

Pissing Adrian off would be, like, a really stupid career move. 

 

And I think she'd get a bit freaked out if she knew what happened between me and Juan. 

So her secret's got to be about... the letter. About Celeste. And, okay, that was a bit of fun: you know when you just want to fuck someone because, well, you  _can?_  When you're living my life, people are like food on an all-you-can-eat banquet table, you take your pick, you can have what you want. And when they're a bit naughty, a bit higher up, a bit risky, a bit I-really-shouldn't- _but_ \-- they're like chocolate sundaes. A normally forbidden pleasure which you just have to indulge in from time to time. 

That's what Celeste was, really, but I'm not telling  _you_  that, Mister Lawyer. I'm going to make you work for your money. I'm going to make you beg for my secrets. I know you want me. And you're too stupid and I've blinded you too well so you don't know what  _I_  kinda  _really_  now want with  _you_. 

"This is a very important matter! Please! You must tell me!"

But you look so  _cute_ , wondering, all het up and annoyed and stuff. The way your brow furrows and you look so exasperated when you're trying to command an answer out of me. I can hear you now in that tone of voice, caught somewhere between, "No, stop!" and "Fuck me harder!" The thing is, Mister Lawyer,  _no one_ , and I repeat,  _no one_  tells me what to do. 

So I'm gonna play hard to get here, and you're gonna take it. 

"So what's this secret?" 

Damn, you're clueless. Honestly. But... indulge me. I'll play dumb and annoy you and watch you blow up and get angry with me and let you know just how much of a pawn you are right now, and at least it will draw out this visit and occupy me for a bit longer than it would otherwise.

 _Oh, shit_. He knows  _something_  is up. I can tell by the look on his face, and he looks like he's not going to get fobbed off lightly any more. 

 _Damn_. It's fun watching him get all wired up. 

He really wants to know... don't you, Mister Lawyer dude? Well, when you have some evidence, I'll play by your rules... until then, I'm going to sit here and look adorable and think about how you'd look...

 _You're leaving?_  Damn. He  _is_  leaving. The door slams behind him, he looks like he's on a mission, like he wants to seriously  _do_  something, and I've just got to wait til he comes back.

And where's Adrian? I don't  _like_  Adrian not being around. I don't like being left like this; I'm nervous, and when I get nervous, I get angry, and I don't like getting angry because  _it's bad for my motherfucking image, dammit._

ADRIAN, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? ANSWER MY CALLS. No, no no no, I don't want to leave a message and get diverted, I need to talk to you right fucking  _NOW_. I need something decent to eat, I need some more brandy, I need a foot massage and a facial, I need my videos, I need something to occupy myself with before I start going fucking crazy in here...

Oh.   
Oh  _yeah_.   
They got her on that evidence stuff. Putting that button in the leg of my pants and all. 

That was a pretty low blow. 

I didn't think she was the type to pull something like that. I thought she was  _loyal_ , dammit, I thought I  _had_  her. 

Did she-- would she--  _really_  plant evidence on me? I don't get it. She  _loves_  me-- not like  _that_ , like how  _everyone_  loves me. I'm cute. I'm refreshing.  _I'm her employer, dammit, if it wasn't for me, she'd be some suicidal loser with no meaning in life._

Bitch. I hope Shelly can get her for this; he swore black and blue that he wouldn't let me take the fall, no matter what. I'm  _his_  employer, too-- and that stupid lawyer's. And he'd better not try screwing me around, either.

 

  
Pacing. That's all I'm doing now, I'm bored and I think that's what I'm meant to do in here, the cameras are still rolling and all I can do is  _pace_. Like a caged animal. Thinking-- I'm thinking about murder. I'm thinking about Juan Corrida's last moments, I'm thinking about how I never got to watch that video, I'm thinking about Adrian Andrews and how she deserves to pay for what she did to me. Or was this some sick plan from the cops?

I don't like being like this.

 _Calm. Controlled. Refreshing_. Remember what my voice coach said all those years ago... 

I just want a chocolate sundae. And some more brandy. Mister Guard Guy, can I have some brandy...? Wait. Are you the same guy who was here yesterday? I'm smashing my fucking fists against the wall here and you're just standing there like you're asleep. Don't you  _care_? I'm Matt Engarde, damn you! I deserve better treatment than this! 

And you're not listening. 

What if I start scratching my face? See? Look, Mister Guard Guy, there's  _blood_. Don't you  _like_  it? Look at it, all red and flowing and beautiful-- I bet you weren't expecting  _that_  from me, but here you go. This is what you people have reduced me to. 

Look.   
At.   
Me.   
Look at me.   
 _Look at me, dammit_.   
I'm the award-winning, Corrida-conquering  _legend_  with the most popular kids' show in the country, and I'm slashing my face to bits and you're just standing there like you're asleep on the job.

I wonder how I'd do, working in a job like this. I wonder how ordinary people survive. I mean, the camera's on you, too, and I guess you'd get to see some interesting stuff every now and then, but it would all be boring because it's all boring insignificant people most of the time, and you'd get switched off to when something interesting, someone  _stellar_  comes in, like  _me_.

Imagine getting so dead to the world that you don't notice brilliance when it's standing right in front of you. 

I cannot believe this. This should not be happening to me. I'm Matt Engarde. Everyone loves me. People  _do things for me_.

That lawyer had better be back soon, or he's going to  _pay_. So's the guard. So's the television station. I bet their ratings will go to  _shit_  without me.

 

 

 

So, you're back, Mister Lawyer. With your kid. I wonder why Shelly didn't go kidnap her; I mean, she's kind of helpless and if  _I_  was going to kidnap someone,  _I'd_  have kidnapped her. 

Wait. This is why I'm an actor, and Shelly's in the line of work he's in. He knows this game. I don't. I'm not even going to pretend to-- I'm convincing enough when I pretend that people would think that  _I'm_ the killer. And like I told you before  _I did not kill anyone_.

And now you're looking at me, you spiky-haired  _freak_ , like you want some sort of magical answer from me. You don't look happy at  _all_ , do you, Mister Lawyer? 

You're looking at me waaay too intently. 

"Did you know about Mr. Corrida and Ms. Andrews' relationship?"

I don't like the way your voice sounds; you're like an amateur auditioning; you sound scared but like you're trying to maintain some authority. I'm unnerved.  _I'm_  the one paying  _you_  here, this makes me your boss--  _you're_  meant to be doing things for... 

Fuck it. Calm. Collected. In control. Fine. We'll play your way, Mister Lawyer dude. 

Haven't we talked about this  _before_ , anyway? Yes. Oh well, smile, grin and bear it, who  _cares_ , it wasn't important, he was probably just using her like he used Celeste, the dumb shit probably thought he was getting my leftovers or something even though I was laughing my ass off the whole time thinking that him trying to get anywhere with her is about is likely as me losing a popularity contest. 

Breezy. Cool. Throwaway answers, Mister Lawyer, we're wasting one anothers' time. Why don't you ask me about something interesting, like  _me_? Why don't you tell me some of  _your_  secrets? What was the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to you? Who have you wanted to kill? Who was the first person who broke your heart, and how did they do it?

Honestly, these questions about Juan and Adrian are about as exciting as the average press conference.

  
"Celeste...?"

How the hell did you find out about Celeste? You weren't meant to know about  _that_.  _Shit_.

The suicide note. Celeste and me. Celeste and Juan. It's all unravelling like poorly-made costumes... you weren't meant to know this...

 _Diversionary tactics, Engarde. NOW._  Make the kid laugh or something. Smile. Flash those pearly whites-- Hey, let's get a pizza. I should do that at the trial tomorrow, charm anyone watching--  _Order in the court_  and all. Who wants a pepperoni supreme? Heh heh.

Dammit, no reception, but I'm not telling him that. 

"I got cut off by the dude at the pizza shop." Sorry, folks, show's over, let's talk about something else, hey? 

 

The press conference? The one that I was meant to be holding but  _wasn't meant to be at?_  Okay... he's mentioned this before. I sort of  _have_  to talk now, don't I? 

Remember: look innocent. Everyone loves you. This guy will by the end of it all, too. Keep it out of the press and he could be a bit of fun for awhile... I don't think I've done a lawyer before. Hmmm...

Feign outrage and surprise. I was a step ahead of Juan, that sneaky pathetic cowardly pigfucker... and Adrian. But I was good. Controlled. I put so much effort into not losing my shit and keeping a calm facade and working things behind the scenes, and I'm still here and...  _deep breath._  The lawyer just wants answers. 

Now he's showing me photos. And he doesn't look very happy. He looks serious and disgruntled. 

 

Look at all the  _blood_  on Corrida. I'm mesmerised. I wish I'd seen it happen. Two for the price of one, really, I  _really_  need to see that video when I get home. Really. 

Play dumb. Play hurt. "What does she have  _against_  me?"

He's acting like he doesn't know, too. Maybe he's not as stupid as he looks. Come on Mister Lawyer, spill your secrets... 

 

Oh.  _Fuck._

The suicide report, it looks like. Closer look...  _Shit._  Where did he get that? This can only mean he  _knows_. 

I don't have to tell him everything and I won't. Innocent face. Smile. Be coy. Be sweet. He's my lawyer but he's not a priest in a confessional. And even if he was, I'm not Catholic so I don't have to confess  _shit_. I don't because I didn't kill anyone,  _anyway_.

He's still looking pretty pissed off. And he's just showing me stuff... cute radio transceiver, picture of Adrian, conference ticket, blah blah blah feed him the answers he wants to hear, he's way off the mark and clutching at straws.

You know, Mister Lawyer, what was going on  _last_  time after you left? I got anxious. I need things. I'm only  _human_ , and I'm an award-winning actor who has extra needs on top of those things, and this is harder for me to adjust to than it would be for someone else, you know, because I'm having to really,  _seriously_  do it  _tough_. Think about it. Guess what a man on my salary does once that oversized costume gets hung up and I've left the studio? Top-notch brandy, beautiful people all for my sexual amusement, and Columbia's finest.

That's what I  _need_  to support me through this life of being there to entertain people, to make them  _happy_ , to give them a  _role model_ , to make the eternally pathetic like Andrews feel like life's worth living.  _IT IS A DIFFICULT LIFE, MISTER LAWYER_.

Okay. Snap back to it, he's showing you a picture of...

Oh  _fuuuuck_. Where the hell did he get  _that_? Did he actually  _see_  Shelly?

Jesus. I didn't know he was going to be home when they rocked up to  ~~feed my cat~~  be taunted by me, letting them so close to what's driving them. It was a maddeningly hilarious idea. And Shelly fucked it up. 

Calm  _down_... 

"He's a pretty cool dude who can do lots of things. He takes real good care of me." Deep breath.

He's taken care of at least one problem. 

 

  
And now you've stopped asking me about things which make me nervous. Thankyou... I feel like I've been saved from something; the relief's ridiculously...  _refreshing._  But I have to keep a nice little poker face happening; relief's evidence of something, too, and I can't show you that, Mister Lawyer, no I can't...

A yawn. Am I really that  _tired_? Your kid looks like she's about to fall asleep, and thanks to you not proving me innocent yet, and delving into things you weren't supposed to know about, it's late, and I have to spend yet another night in here. Do you know how hard this is for me? I'm used to getting facials and foot massages, and if you were better at your job I'd be sitting back at home on my sofa with some sushi and cranberry juice watching Juan Corrida dying over and over, in slow motion, laughing to myself and petting my cat.

Oh. You're going. I kind of wish you wouldn't, but you're right; your kid looks  _tired_. See you in court tomorrow, Mister Lawyer... sweet dreams. To the both of you. 

Your daughter looks like she's nearly asleep, dreaming of puppies and unicorns and superheroes and cotton candy.

...I wonder what pretty little earnest tough guy lawyers in blue suits dream of. I've never really considered it; I haven't added the tough guy lawyer role to my resume yet.

Hmm. 

I don't think they're like me and they dream of that insatiable thrill that you get a few minutes after doing a couple of lines, or of watching an enemy die and blood and pain and artful expressions and making some B-grade nobody suck you off while you're pulling their hair so much that you can feel them sobbing on you and how fucking  _amazing_  that feels; that sense of having it, ultimate power of being allowed to do whatever you damn well want knowing that you can get away with it. Dreams and reality mingle and everything gets superimposed over everything and with a glass or two of brandy in you before bed, or a few lines of coke during the day, who cares what reality is and what might be fantasy, because it's all fucking wonderful.

I can't see you dreaming of that, Mister Lawyer. I think you lack a certain sense of fun and imagination.

Maybe you dream of the simple pleasures, things little people can manage to enjoy as much as someone like me can. Some pleasures are enjoyable regardless of socioeconomic status and popularity.

Maybe hard-working brow-sweating lawyers in blue suits who've been up too late dream of chocolate sundaes and the innocence of a time gone by when you weren't embroiled in such interesting affairs.

Or maybe you won't sleep, Mister Lawyer. Maybe you'll lie awake wondering if the rumours you've heard about Shelly deKiller are true or not, maybe you'll see a postman in your dream and he'll give you a package and you'll open it and shit yourself when you see it's one of her fingers. 

Maybe you'll get broken sleep, waking up in sweat and panic, screaming like you've been having some rather interesting and  _fun_  (oh well, maybe not for you, but for  _me_ ) sex with someone-- and you'll have fragments of nightmares of what could be still lingering in your brain for the rest of the day. And the longer you prolong my verdict, the more tired you'll get and the less reality and the nightmares will remain in different worlds.

  


* * *

He's...  _back_? That little girl looks like she's gotten her second wind and is all peppy and excitable. I wonder why she hasn't asked for an autograph yet. Should I be insulted? She seems like a very strange child anyway.

Mr. Lawyer does  _not_  look happy. He looks tired and really pissed off, like he got one hell of a parking ticket or found out that his girlfriend's finger got cut off or something.

Relax. He's pissed off because he's tired. He won't have found anything in a couple of hours after hours. He's a  _lawyer_ : a professional. Even though I'm Matt Engarde, he's not going to bust his ass for a client. Lawyers need beauty sleep like all the rest of us, and he's dragging that kid around, anyway.

Isn't it past your bedtime?

"I think it's time you told me the truth."

You know, he looks kind of hot like that. He'd be fun to break. It would be a work of art to turn that into... oh  _god_. I can picture him now, being all hot and bothered and forceful and then groveling and drooling and bleeding everywhere and pleading to let me do anything to...

 _Stay focussed_. If you show fear, he'll keep this shit up and your career will be  _fucked._  Act like it's no big deal.  _So ya wanna talk, tough guy?_  Not quite like that. Ignorance might be bliss, Mister Lawyer, and you don't want that.

You want a world of pain and hardship? I'd be more than happy to start indulging you. Let's go.

 

He's got something in his hand. Looks flashy, a plastic toy of some type-- can't quite see it...

 _This is bad._  Not sure why, but...

"What if Mr. Corrida had been successful in his plan? What would he have disclosed...?"

I want to laugh, because you  _still_  haven't pieced it together yet, Mister Lawyer, and the whole mess is looking so seriously obvious. You've successfully unravelled the whole thing, and now you wish you could put it back together, don't you?

 _Deep breath._  Play dumb. Be refreshing, be cute,  _smile_ , for fuck's sake. Don't twitch. By god, don't look like you're trying to not twitch, too... all you need to do is state the obvious; he's back because it's late and he's desperate and he was told to have me cleared before now, that's it, he could  _not_  have traced back anything else, and anyway, that bear probably came from a fan like the others and that camera was well-hidden... by the tabloids. The reporters who wanted in on Adrian and Juan's little tete-de-tetes. 

 _You don't know ANYTHING_. 

Nothing. Nada.

Stop  _looking at me like that_. Stop pushing me, you dipshit, I've told you  _nicely_  that 

"I totally didn't pay Juan any attention the whole time that night! I was taking a  _nap_!"

"Don't lie to me." 

 

Oh  _shit_. All it takes is that tone of voice and suddenly there's this sense that I've fucked up and he's doing more than poking around and asking questions. He's asking questions he already knows the answer to, and he looks  _pissed_. 

I want Adrian. Adrian before I knew she was selling me out and trying to subtly bring me down like a colony of termites. Adrian when she made drinks for me and talked to the press and covered up scandals and demanded that the caterers damn well make me chocolate sundaes even if they weren't on the menu. Adrian who would let me sleep and who'd source things to bring me down if I was too high up and had appearances which I needed sleep before...

 _Aaaaaaadriiiiiiaaaaaan_...

He's got the camera. Staring at me, an evil little glimmering eye, looking at me like it can destroy everything. 

 _Relax_. Paparazzi are brutal nowadays. They'd stoop to anything, wouldn't they, and no one's going to admit to planting it now that Corrida's dead. They don't report on dirt after a celebrity dies under tragic circumstances (yeah, the tragedy being that I haven't seen the tape yet)-- you're safe. 

 _Refreshing, Matt._  Flip the hair, smile, have a drink. He's clutching at straws. Maybe you can feed him a line about those horrible, mean paparazzi and what they've seen  _you_  get up to. 

"Wow... But dude, where was this camera you're talking about hidden?"

Remember: you don't know anything. Seem naive, bemused, surprised. Not too calm and not too alarmed. Let it all coast past you like you're learning something from this, too...

He still could be bluffing. Hell, the paparazzi  _might_  have put a camera in the room, too. Wouldn't that be a laugh?

He looks eager to shove something at me, like he's about to piss himself; that sort of weird urgency, like he simply  _has_  to... 

Go on then, Mister Lawyer. Give it your best shot. Amuse me. I'm tired, but always up for a comedy act. If you found the camera  _I_  got into Corrida's room... that's impo--

 _Fuck_.

He looks so smug about it, too. The photo of that hideous bear, pressed against the window at me, a smirk on his face like he's just told me that he's fucked Adrian or something. Not that I'd care about  _that_ , but I care about this.

 _Still: the bear could have been from anywhere._  Why does it automatically have to be mine...? Even  _he's_  saying it was a present from a fan, and you know how crazy fans can get, Mister Lawyer dude...?

Looks expensive, Mister Lawyer. Obviously  _someone_  who  _adored_  Juan would have spent that much money on him,  _and you KNOW there was no love lost between the two of us_ , so  _why the hell would **I**  send him a godammned imported lifesized bear?_

Why  _me_? What draws you to that conclusion, it could have come from anywhere? Sure, I was more popular and you don't expect people to be that crazy for a B-grade try-hard like Corrida, but if this industry's taught me anything, it's that people are fucking weird and will do things like that. 

Now you're showing me the camera. Okay, this still isn't linked to me. Those cameras are a dime a dozen when you think about it, I paid in cash, no one had to know... Note to self:  _Next_  time you need to do things like this, get  _someone else_  to do your grocery shopping.

Play dumb. How could a bear look into Mr. Corrida's private life like that? Who would  _do_  such a thing? Oh, I would, but you don't need to know about that, Mister Lawyer... 

"...Maybe it's a really curious bear...?" Jeez, you're good. And cute. Why didn't  _anyone_  pick you up for romantic comedies? I mean, you're attractive enough, you do cute and refreshing like it's second nature, and you're drop-dead gorgeous. Everyone wants you...

He's not letting up. The _bear_ saw the murder? Oh? Poor thing. Poor tragic little plushie which looks like it could rip someone's head off and scratch their innards out just as soon as it would stand there looking creepy.

I've always hated bears. 

  
But that means nothing to  _me_ , does it? Hell, people are  _weird_. Maybe someone  _did_  spy on Corrida-- hell knows  _why_ \-- people will get interested in the strangest things and the most boring, untalented, useless and pathetic people-- the fact that Corrida was even  _at_  Gatewater spells  _that_  out loud and clear enough, doesn't it?

Really, Mister Lawyer, if you want to get me on anything, you're going to have to try so much harder... and I'm tired. And so are you. Let's call it quits right now while you're still ahead and I'm still looking innocent. Wouldn't it  _hurt_  you to know the truth? You'll go to pieces... the public will go to pieces. Ruining my image like this will destroy  _lives_ , you nosy little prick... come  _on_...

You don't think it's from a fan? Why not? Who else would do something like that? Ahh... a crazed stalker. That's still fannish, though, in a weird obsessive kind of way, isn't it?

 _Shit_. It's me, right... Wright? Ha! I'm a poet and I don't even know it. Here we go, you're saying it's me, and you have no fucking proof so I'm going to ride this out, and giggle afterwards. You really think I'm that interested in him, don't you?

"I don't think I've ever met Mr. Bear before, dude." HA! Take  _that_. Don't smirk. It's funny and you're brilliant, but it'll get him angry and when lawyers get angry, they go on the warpath. Cool, Matt, be cool...

"Aww, but he says he knows you. How could you forget such a great friend?"

Geez. I never picked  _you_  for being such a sarcastic, mean-spirited little bastard. He's sounding  _way_  too smug. Prick. 

Alright Mister Lawyer, we'll play along like you do... "What  _else_  did the bear tell you?"

Deep. Breath. Don't look scared. You're just toying with him now, like he is with you. This is verbal foreplay. He's going to draw a blank, wish you good night, and go home and have nightmares about the girlfriend who might be missing a few fingers by now. 

"He says that the one who put the camera in his eye was you, Mr. Engarde."

Oh.  _Cute_. Laugh. It's funny. How preposterous. That would be like suggesting Matt Engarde is some kind of sociopathic bastard, that he parties all night like a wild thing, that he spend nearly four thousand dollars on cocaine prior to this awards ceremony, that he drinks to excess and scours the internet for snuff porn and that he obsesses over what Juan Corrida's doing and that he is contemplating plastic surgery and that he may or may not have been thrown out of a very well-known rehab clinic after assaulting two staff members and another client who was pissing him off... 

That's all  _lies_. It's lies because I say it is, Lawyer Boy, and I'm the one with the axis of power here, you're doing my bidding, and Mr. Bear doesn't talk to you and wouldn't want to anyway. 

And neither do  _I_ , but you're sounding so ridiculous that I'd  _better_.

Damn, you're good. But hey-- I'm  _better_.

"If I didn't know how you work in court, I'd think I was in some serious trouble." Be cool, Matt. Giggle. Show him a flash of the pearly whites. You paid for them, why not show them off? But not too much.

 _Hey_ , the dim light in here lets me see my reflection in the glass. Maybe I really  _should_  get that lift I was thinking about, and lord knows I could use a chemical peel soon and some green tea. Antioxidants, that's what I need, this place is free radical city and it's going to show on your face for  _wee--_

Shit. Mister Lawyer's looking like he wants to bitchslap me.

No, Mister Lawyer. Down, boy. Not the face.

 

Yawn. It's tiring. And it's late. We all have court tomorrow, kids, and I haven't had my beauty rest or a glass of chocolate milk to calm my nerves or  _anything_. I need medication. If Adrian hadn't sold me out, this could be sorted now and Wright wouldn't be glaring at me like this because I'd be whacked out in a nice little dreamcloud of benzodiazepine bliss.

"Come on... This is all a joke, right dude? You're just pulling my leg." Easygoing and friendly, Matt, you shouldn't have to be acting now; it's late, when will this son-of-a-bitch just give up and go  _home_?

"Looks like you're not ready to give up your secret yet." He sounds so fucking grim, too tired and real and disturbingly confident. Play it cool, Matt; it's too late for this, really, but he's a special type of crazy. Craaazy for luuuurve. 

 _Pfft._  Moron. Will Shelly cut her fingers off anyway? It's a pity I never got friendly with him and asked him about stuff like that. I wonder how it felt to kill Corrida... did he say afterwards "Was it good for you, too?" 

Stop smirking, Matt. Cool. Calm.

"Well, do you have any proof you want to show me first?" Watch him crumble. Watch him not be able to do anything about... No.

Hang on. 

What's that... it's my...  _autograph_. 

Ever feel like the air's dead around you and you're slowly asphixiating...?

I wonder if that was how Corrida felt as he died...?

I wonder if he got off on it...? Lame prick...

Ever feel like you're about to black out and you're cornered and terrified and...

And what? 

It's over. 

 __

_No_. Don't let him beat you. He's just some stupid lawyer. You're the artistic genius, the master of words and the performing arts, people will believe you over  _him_ , just answer the question slowly. 

Use his own weapons against him; doing  _that_  is using his own weapons against him, he's a lawyer and that's what they do. It'll make his head explode because you're smarter than him...

"Dude, all you can tell from this is that I spent $3,800." Cool. Refreshing. Smirk like a bitch, because what the hell can he prove with a piece of paper?

"I go to that department store all the time, OK?"

You can tell from his face that he doesn't. He probably has no idea what they sell there. Time to be a bitch and play up the celebrity life. 

"A-A THIRTY-EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLAR TOOTHBRUSH!?"

He's jealous. I can see it; the bitterness of a life toiled away when I can supposedly buy four-thousand-dollar toothbrushes. Give him a smile, poor lawyer. Think about what he'd give for a night with you, on the town with you paying, or between your sheets just so he could know for the rest of his miserable little life, that he once did something important.

Bitterness makes people do things in hatred and anger. 

"The store clerk clearly remembers you and your purchase." He sounds too smooth. Too smug. Like he's managed to get a knife into me and he's now twisting it, and watching blood ooze out and me wincing in pain.

"After all, you even gave him an  _autograph_ , did you not!?"

Ooh, taunting me, Mr. Lawyer? Very clever. Does it make you feel  _big_? Important? Better than what you are, which is nothing but a fucking  _puppet_ , a trained seal, a thing to clap its hands and perform tricks in front of other people at my beck and call and...

Don't let him know what he's done, and he might get bored and take another line-- which might make him lose the plot again and go home in frustration and let you sleep. 

 _Please,_  Mister Lawyer Dude.

That's what we all need now, sleep and sweet dreams of cocaine and grievous bodily harm and chocolate sundaes.

 

 

Deep fucking breath. He's toying with you, taunting you, because he can and he thinks he's being clever.

But he has a humanitarian side. That's why he went into this job, that's why he wears the same ugly suit everywhere, that's why he's not a prosecutor. He's wanting to be that young, idealistic lawyer out of a John Grisham movie who truly believes his client, who wants a  _relationship_  with him-- oh god, don't think about  _that_  right  _now_ \-- where he saves the day against the odds.

He wants to believe you're innocent. You still have the upper hand here, so  _concentrate_. He's angry and tired, but use your charm, make that face, appeal to his sense of heroic responsibility. 

You need this. 

"Um, so can I ask you one thing?"  _Damn_ , you're convincing. That sweet whine in your voice, tentative and scared and nervous and willing to let anyone take advantage of you-- that's what it was like when you were starting out, when everyone thought you were a stupid, pretty little thing and that allowed them to make themselves ignore the fact that beneath the smile were razor-sharp teeth.

He's going to do it, too. Seduce him, Matt.

"You're my lawyer, right dude?" Wide-eyed. Disbelieving. Innocent. How you need to look in court tomorrow. 

"So, if you are, then why are you looking into stuff like that?" Sound  _hurt_. Oh, Mr. Blue-Suited Lawyer Dude, you cut me to pieces. Damn, I could win an Oscar for this.... don't look too cocky. Play it smooth, he hasn't won yet, don't get distracted wondering what his girlfriend might look like now, or what he might look like if you--

"Because if I don't know the truth, I can't help you."

 _Sure_  you can, Mr. Lawyer Dude. You're helping me because I'm  _paying_  you to. Lots of people help me without knowing the truth-- what the  _fuck_  makes you think  _you're_  somehow speci--

 _Calm down._  Like a fucken  _breeze_ , Matt. Remember that time you went out the back of Global Studios just after your first audition and you  _knew_  you were in, and you sat behind the fence and smoked a joint and everything felt so insanely perfect? You need that bliss now. 

Push him away, casually, lighthearted; come on, Mr. Lawyer, there's a good boy...

He wants you to think he's on your side. Something's shifted in his gaze, he's picking you open for answers, he thinks he's going to save the day, but you're still holding the trump card-- the girlfriend. While Shelly's on this, you're safe. 

He promised. He knows what he's doing. If he fucks this up, you have dirt on him, don't you, you clever bastard?

"Of course, it would be strictly confidential..."

How  _nice_ , Mr. Lawyer, you're being so gentle and sweet and coaxing, it's like you've handed me a warm chocolate milk laced with roofies. You want my path of least resistance, you want my trust, you want me unprotesting, walking into my own death... and you're not getting it. 

Now he's saying I hid the camera, he's adamant, his brow's furrowing again, and that little girl is scowling at me. Why can't she just go to fucking  _sleep_? Permanently, actually-- the eyes and the pouts from her are creeping me the hell out.

But he still thinks it's about Andrews. Fob him off, and he'll go on another fishing adventure. After all, anyone could have put that camera there, papa-fucking-razzi, Mr. Lawyer. Wax lyrical on the nature of celebrity--  _You can't get me, you can't get me, nyeeerh!_ \-- Shut  _up_  brain, this is the sort of slip-up he  _wants_ \-- 

I hate that blank look. Like he's somehow seen through me and read my mind. He's staring. Unimpressed, his faced hardened. Letting me talk like I'm a cassette tape that he's waiting to run out before he turns it over and gets whatever's on the other side. How  _retro_.

Ohshitohshitohshit.

You  _do_  know, Mister Lawyer, and you're just like me. You're enjoying me squirming like this. Who would have thought that we'd be like-minded souls, that we'd have so much in common? Once you get me off the hook, you'll have to come to one of my parties, and I'll show you just how much fun you can have when you're as well-connected as I am. 

"Too bad, that wasn't your intention."

So clear and cold. He wants the truth. That's all.

Shit.

 

"I wish your reason for spying was something so innocent. But it wasn't." So final, like a book being slammed down on the table. What does he  _want_?

His girlfriend to return to him alive and in one piece. And-- heheh-- to think-- heheheh-- he came  _so close_  to finding her-- she could probably smell his aftershave in the room after he'd left-- 

"The real reason you set up that camera in Mr. Corrida's room was..."

Waiting for it. The truth. Or what he thinks of the truth. If he knew, he'd have mentioned it by now, and he mentioned Shelly way back when, discarded his name casually, like some groupie he'd fucked and forgotten about. 

He can't be back on that one, again, can he? 

And then it slips out; I'm staring at it, he's staring at it, the girl's staring at it, we all know for a moment and I can feel sweat dripping down the back of my neck and the guard moves slightly by the door and I'm frantic and desperate and all I know is that something's gone very very wrong because he's got the card.

Maybe when I see the tape, I can figure out how he got it, right? There's got to be another explanation. Shelly didn't want me to have that card, and looking at it now is unnerving the living shit out of me.

It's an egg-shaped, blood-soaked button in the leg of my pants. It's a camera drilled into the eye of an oversized bear that looks like it wants to eat you. It's a fatally bad trip, a conference someone was going to pull off as you while revealing your innermost secrets--  _Let's pretend this is still just about the suicide note, okay?_ \-- and I feel sick. I need some brandy. And Xanax. And a lie down.  _Now_.

Play stupid, it's all you can do now, Matt, you're floundering and this is not going to be good. 

"The man's name is Shelly de Killer... and I'm sure you know of him, don't you?"

Jesus. His voice is like butter, butter laced with poison. Why hadn't Shelly killed him in a fucked up way like  _that_? I've never seen anyone die from poison. I wonder how it looks-- do faces twist in agony like their soul is trying to break free and depart the body? Or do they just look on in confusion, their deadening eyes asking  _Why me?_  Or do they just look headed for  _sleep_... Every now and then I think I'm in the wrong line of work. Except I'm too noticable, too memorable, too gorgeous-- to work as a lowly assassin.

And if I go down for this, Shelly is, too. I wouldn't ever want to be in a job where I could get blackmailed and not claw my way out like he won't be able to.

"Why-w would-I know a scumbag like  _him_?" Honestly, Wright, I'm an award-winning children's television star. How would I get connected with shady evil horrible people like Shelly deKiller? Everyone knows I'm wholesome and fresh and pretty and that the rivalry between Corrida and I was just some friendly hi-jinks. We didn't  _really_  hate one another... believe me, believe me, ohgodI'msquirming. 

 _Poker face, Matt._

Shelly is going to be pissed. Part of my contract with him was that he wasn't to be unduly compromised. And now he is, and where the fuck did Wright find out about him anyway?

"...you're his client." Big blue deceptive eyes blink at me, and I wonder if he's ever done anything bad before--  _have you_ , Mister Lawyer? You're a lawyer, so you probably charge like a wounded bull even when you're mean and unfair and you pressure people and you're incompetant and callous and getting off on watching your clients squirm right in front of you.

"You knew exactly what was going to happen in that room!" He's figured me out.

Very good, Mister Lawyer.

But you still have to defend me, like it or not, or else your girlfriend gets turned into fish food. You think you've caught me, and you have, but you haven't backed me into a corner and aren't fucking me against a wall. Too bad, Mister Lawyer, I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?

You played well, but I played better, as I do, because,  _I'm Matt Engarde_. You're not stupid, though.

Maybe I should respect you a bit. Just a little.

Maybe you can get me out of jail, and we could hook up, I'll scratch your back and you can... no. Maybe not that sort of closeness, but we can  _help_  one another, Mister Lawyer Dude, we're two of a kind. A rare breed. We cracked one another. 

I'm watching you talking and plans are hatching in my brain. I'm good. You're good. Let's do it. We'd be perfect. You and your blue suit and legalese and earnest work ethics, me and my good looks and refreshing as a spring breeze bullshit and winning smile and cute little faces and brilliance-- we could dazzle the world and make it ours, Wright.

Go on, you've earned it. We can blackmail deKiller together, I can use you on my payroll permnanently  ~~until you get dull or I find someone else or you get slack and stop wanting to work for me~~  and we can seduce, outwit, and take on  _the whole fucking world._

And Corrida will be a great example of what happens when people get in the way.

I tried giving you the easy way out, tried not explaining, letting you go down the path I thought you wanted, but it seems you're nearly as clever as I am and you pieced it together.

I have to respect that. Drop the act. Let you in. 

 

One final act-- I'm consulting myself, Mister Lawyer. I love hamming it up, fooling and frustrating people like this, knowing I have it over them and that I'm so much smarter than the majority of the population, and I bet you're like that, too, aren't you, Mister Lawyer Dude?

Flick the wristphone off. Turn to face you. Flick the fringe out of my eyes-- just because I'm being honest, I can't lose the flair for the dramatic.

"How do you do... Mister Lawyer? I'm Matt Engarde."


End file.
